The Spanish Love Deception by Elena Armas (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📗

I … I didn’t know what to say to him. What to do with any of this, frankly. And the longer I spent in silence, with him radiating this openness right on me, the more he made me warmer and dizzier, and the harder it was for me to complete thoughts.

“Do you understand me, Catalina?” he pressed, that warmth coating my whole body.

No, I wanted to say. I don’t understand a single thing that’s going on here.

My throat moved, my vocal cords somehow failing at voicing an answer. A strange sound left my lips, making me clear my throat right after. “I should go,” I finally managed out. “If you don’t mind, I should change. We will be late otherwise.”

With a motion surprisingly smooth for someone his size, Aaron moved out of my way. He placed his body to one side, still too large and wide for my cramped apartment. Still taking up too much space and still making me feel itchy and tingly. Especially when I walked past him and my robe-clad shoulder brushed his chest.

His very hard chest.

All the heat I felt in my body rushed back to my face.

Stop. I moved on weak legs, my skin feeling clammy. I just need to get out of this robe, I assured myself, tugging at the neck. That is the only reason why I am flushed and warm.

Walking to the other end of my studio apartment as I fought the urge to fan myself, I made myself think about something else.

Dresses. Not Aaron. Not him in a tux. Or his minty breath. Or his chest. Or any other body part. Not what he said either.

But my head started turning, wanting to look back. At him.

No.

Reaching my wardrobe, I threw the doors open. Rummaging around as I searched for whatever I owned that would rise to the occasion, I slowly regained my focus.

I fished the one piece of clothing with the potential to save my ass out of the depths of my wardrobe, grabbed the pair of heels I reserved for special events, a couple of accessories, and headed for the bathroom.

On my way, I gave Aaron a sideways glance. He was hovering somewhere close to the velvety blue sofa, dwarfing it, his gaze on the screen of his phone. He didn’t even lift his head when I walked in front of him.

Good. Better than him snooping around or flaunting his apparently very distracting body around.

It had to be the tuxedo. This behavior of mine—this reaction he had caused in me—wasn’t normal.

“I will … get ready in there,” I said over my shoulder to the man who seemed to take all the space in my small apartment. “Make yourself at home.”

Once inside the only walled room in my apartment—the bathroom—I felt somehow lighter. My skin cooler. It didn’t have a lock, so I simply shut the door and hung the dress from the shower bar and started with my makeup and hair.

After what seemed like an eternity—and at the same time, not nearly enough time—I was finally content with how I looked. The woman who stared back at me from the full-length wall mirror I had cleverly installed in the bathroom was wearing a sleeveless floor-length dress. A color somewhere between onyx and midnight blue. The cut and the fabric were rather simple—and definitely not evening gown-ish enough—but the slit that traveled along the skirt all the way up, stopping above my right knee, gave it a graceful and classy touch. Although the real star of the show was the neckline, which—even if it didn’t give an inch of cleavage away, closing around my neck like it did—was embedded with white beads that imitated pearls. It was absolutely beautiful. That was exactly why I had impulsively bought it months ago. And why I hadn’t had the chance to wear it yet and forgotten it was even there.

My gaze inspected the waves of brown hair falling on my shoulders. Nowhere near perfect, but it would have to do. For a long minute there, I considered putting on red lipstick. But I quickly discarded it, thinking it would be overdoing it. I’d rather reserve that for a real date.

Not that it would be happening anytime soon. Dates hadn’t been in the cards for a long time.

Sighing softly, I felt an uncomfortable twinge in my chest.

I hadn’t gone on a date in what felt like an eternity. Not that I considered myself unworthy or unattractive enough not to pique someone’s interest. I had gone on a few dates here and there shortly after moving to New York. But at some point, I had stopped trying. What was the point when it was clear there was something wrong with me? I might have left Spain, but somehow, I had managed to leave my trust—my willingness to fall in love ever again—somewhere across the ocean.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I realized I hadn’t put effort in my makeup, hair, and clothes for just as long. And now, I wished I hadn’t noticed that.

Because pitying myself was something I had long ago promised myself I wouldn’t do. It was a route I swore I wouldn’t take.

Then, why was I feeling this way? How had I let myself get here? To the point that for the first time in months, I was putting actual effort in my appearance and my clothes, and I was doing it for something that wasn’t even real. A fake date. A deal. A sort of business agreement. Jesus, how had I gotten to the point where I needed to make up a relationship, so I didn’t feel like a total failure?

My fears rang as true as ever. I was broken. I was—

A knock on the door returned me to the present, reminding me of who was waiting for me outside my bedroom. Impatiently, if the pounding on the door was any sign.

“How much longer is it going to take you, Catalina?” Aaron’s notoriously deep voice carried through the bathroom door. “You’ve been